


ghost of you on my mind

by misskatieleigh



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 16:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12461589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misskatieleigh/pseuds/misskatieleigh
Summary: He might be losing his mind. No, really.





	ghost of you on my mind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ghosts and Ghouls day of SniperPilot Halloween and loosely based on a Tumblr post.

Bodhi might be going crazy. 

No, really, he might. See, he keeps finding bruises, bruises that he doesn't remember having, that he doesn't remember causing. Sure, he's a little clumsy, a few bruises are easily explained away. Until they became more...intimate. The rough smudge against his hip, another on his ribs, the ones that look like fingerprints against his collarbone. And they don't hurt, when he presses down on them. They don't feel like bruises, don’t fade blue-black to green to yellow, just disappear from one day to the next. 

He really might be losing it, actually. 

His neighbor starts giving him looks, when they pass in the hall, muttering under her breath and setting her mouth in a tight line. He's confused at first, they've always been cordial before now. He's not sure what changed, but whatever it is gets worse and worse until finally she stops him with an arm across his path, hissing, “Some of us like to sleep you know.” 

His eyebrows shoot up, then twist into confusion. “What?”

She groans and pulls her arm back. “Just...keep it down. Or get your boyfriend to fuck you at his apartment for once.”

Then she's gone and he's left standing in the hall trying to figure out how his life got so turned around. He doesn't even  _ have _ a boyfriend.

The notes are the last straw. He opens a book that he's been trying to read when he's not completely exhausted after work, flipping to the last dog-eared page, and finds a sticky note wedged between the pages, a messy scrawl of ‘sleep well, love’ inked onto the fluorescent pink square. He writes it off to something left behind by another shopper at the bookstore, though he feels like he should have noticed the brightness when he marked his place before. 

Two days later there's one tucked into the pocket of his work shirt, alongside a lottery ticket he's forgotten to check against the winning numbers. This note says ‘hope it's your lucky day!’ and is signed with a flourished ‘C’. He holds the note in his hand for five shaking minutes before his boss shoos him back into the garage to do an oil change. He throws the note away. It might be a mistake. 

He wakes up late the next day, his clock blinking in the lazy aftermath of a power failure and his cell phone dead on his desk. He feels foggy around the edges, like he's had one too many drinks. Like that one party in high school when he'd accepted the roughly rolled joint in a pique of adolescent rebellion. He plugs his phone in, waiting for the rattling vibration that it's charging before holding the power button down to turn it on. 

He catches his reflection in the mirror, an impatient half glance. Then he looks again, because his is not the only face reflected there. Turning around sharply, he clenches his hand into a fist. He's not sure he's actually doing it correctly, but it doesn't matter because no one is there. His phone turns on, pinging with notifications. Probably his boss firing him for not showing up. He drops it onto the desk, hands shaking, and turns back around. 

The other face is closer now. It's a man, and he's staring, confusion written in the twist of his eyebrows. Bodhi turns again on instinct, his breath catching in his throat because  _ there's no one there _ . Except in his mirror, where there is a man, who looks real and whole (and beautiful, his wretched mind supplies) standing just beside him. Standing very close, actually, like they're friends. 

Bodhi sits down in his chair and puts his head in his hands. This is it, he's finally gone around the bend. 

He leans into the hand on his shoulder before he realizes that it shouldn't be there, the ache in his chest crawling up his throat. Has he really gotten lonely enough to create an imaginary spectre to keep him company? He doesn't want to open his eyes though, to prove that there's no one there. It hurts too much. Instead he leans further into the warm sensation, his mouth opening in a gasp when another hand brushes the hair away from his face. He's waiting for it, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together in his mind, but the soft brush of lips against his own is still a shock. 

His eyes fly open. There, on the mirror, is another note. ‘Please don't be afraid. I won't hurt you.’

He doesn't know why he believes that, surely this is all just a figment of his imagination, a trick of a drink he doesn't remember having. Whatever the case, he blurts out the first thought that comes to his mind, not why or how, but, “what's your name?” 

The man smiles and Bodhi's lips twitch in response. His mouth in the mirror looks well-kissed, full and red, evidence beyond anything that this isn't all in his mind. The note changes, a slow fade replaced by a name. 

‘Cassian.’

 


End file.
